Hunter Street Produce I forgot to lock my bicycle so its world with me ended. The day otherwise is full, now walking past the deli, now the patio bar, where half those summering there have a demi-glace on, their pandemics unlocked― August, what a terrible poem. Recycled clouds and cans of June the sky starts to stink like your old elementary school again, someone taking your hand and pulling you out of the sun where you will draw automatic birds, automatically gone to seed― there’s an atmosphere today of old tablecloth weighted with a bowl of bright exotic fruit you’ve no correlation for, but the brightness is promising, someone stole your bike picking all this for you― -JM
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